possession I have gained."

"May your fears ever be as idle!"

"And you really love me! I repeat to myself ever and ever that one
phrase. I could once have borne to lose you, now it would be my death.
I despaired of ever being loved for myself; my wealth was a fatal dower;
I suspected avarice in every vow, and saw the base world lurk at the
bottom of every heart that offered itself at my shrine. But you,
Ernest,--you, I feel, never could weigh gold in the balance--and you--if
you love--love me for myself."

"And I shall love thee more with every hour."

"I know not that: I dread that you will love me less when you know me
more. I fear I shall seem to you exacting--I am jealous already. I was
jealous even of Lady T------, when I saw you by her side this morning.
I would have your every look--monopolise your every word."

This confession did not please Maltravers, as it might have done if he
had been more deeply in love. Jealousy, in a woman of so vehement and
imperious a nature, was indeed a passion to be dreaded.

"Do not say so, dear Florence," said he, with a very grave smile; "for
love should have implicit confidence as its bond and nature--and
jealousy is doubt, and doubt is the death of love."

A shade passed over Florence's too expressive face, and she sighed
heavily.